


"What Am I Supposed To Do With You, Lieutenant??!"

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 14:37:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18853069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: That was the question.  It really was rather amazing the number of people who had asked themselves that very question regarding Lieutenant Craig Garrison.  Oh, the words might be a little different, the accents equally varied, but they all had at least some level of frustration underlying them.





	1. Henri Marchant - "Lieutenant, What Am I Supposed To Do With You?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henri Marchant - regarding that foggy (in more than one sense) night in London referenced in 'I Didn't Mean It, I Swear'

Henri Marchant, proprietor, co-owner, looked at the heavily intoxicated young officer leaning against the front desk of Hotel Marchant. The man accompanying him had introduced himself as Lucas McClaine, had been apologetic, especially at having the proprietor roused from his quarters, but had shrugged helplessly. 

"He said he was staying here, knew you personally, that he'd be safe here, and I don't really have anywhere else to take him, Mr. Marchant. I'm in temporary bachelor quarters myself, and can't very well take him home to the family. If I take him to HQ, he's going to be in a world of trouble, and I'd hate to see that. He, well, I think he has some heavy things on his mind right now; I can't imagine him drinking that much on purpose otherwise. I've never seen him do so before, anyway. I warn you, he's thrown up twice on the way over, and I doubt he's finished." 

Marchant shook his head in resignation; and he had been so looking forward to tonight! Jean had been away for some time, had just gotten back to London that morning.

"Yes, he will be in safe hands here, and I thank you on his behalf." 

He'd enlisted the wide-eyed night desk clerk in helping to guide the wavering officer to Marchant's private quarters, and then sent the curious clerk on his way with a sternly issued order to keep all of this to himself. "You say you wish to be in the hotel business, Paul; it is never too early to learn when to see and not see, what to know and not know."

Now Henri looked at the man who had been an occasional favored guest in his hotel, but whom he had never seen in such a state.

"Lieutenant, what am I supposed to do with you? I thought you had much more common sense!" 

Truly, Henri might have expected something like this from the four men on Garrison's team, perhaps, but never the very disciplined military officer. And unlike those four who, at least when HE'D seen them when they had overindulged, had been cheerful drunks, this young man seemed so dreadfully sunken in spirit. Enough so that Henri determined he really should NOT be left alone, not tonight.

Henri propped the young American in the chair in his sitting room, and quickly went to the next room to make an explanation to his companion. Luckily he and Jean knew each other quite well, had a solid committment, enough there was no misunderstanding, no feelings of jealousy. What any onlookers who'd passed in the hall might think when Garrison was being helped into his rooms, well, that might be another story.

{"Though whoever would think I would be taking this very drunk, very disheveled young man into my quarters for less than honorable reasons does not know me very well. Even when I was still actively seeking companionship, I had standards, and I never sought any who lacked the capacity to be a willing and agreeable participant in the evening!"}

Through a fog Garrison heard the muttered words of farewells, and slowly realized what was happening. He caught only a brief glimpse of a shadow, then the door opening and closing. "You have company, Henri. I'm sorry; I'll leave . . ." 

"You will do as I direct you, Lieutenant Garrison. And my first order is for you to go into the bedroom, undress and sit on the side of the bed and await me while I make certain preparations." 

Garrison's head had snapped up, and he quickly raised blood-shot eyes to look at Henri Marchant in shock and dismay, surprising a snort of laughter from the Frenchman. 

"Lieutenant, have you taken a good look at yourself, or smelled yourself for that matter? Believe me, a less enticing cheri amour I cannot imagine! Come, get undressed, we will see if there is any hot water left to get you clean. I have a spare toothbrush and toothpowder that you will most certainly use. Then, some aspirin, perhaps a few hours sleep, yes? I have bookwork to attend to, which I will do at the desk over by the window, with the table lamp turned quite low. I will see what our valet department can do with your clothing. And while I will not guarantee things will look brighter in the morning, I do know being clean, with a few hours sleep, will not worsen whatever situation brought you to this foolishness."

He wasn't going to ask; if the man wanted to confide in him, he would listen, try to help in whatever way he could. The duties of a hotelier could get remarkably complicated at times; he'd often noted that. Being a hotelier with ties to Clan O'Donnell did not reduce those complications, as this evening was proving.


	2. Goniff - "W'at The Ruddy 'ell Am I Supposed To Do With You, Lieutenant??!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goniff, after a troubling conversation with Chief about Goniff stepping in to protect Garrison.

Goniff thought again about the reckless, stubborn young man he'd inexplicably fallen so deeply in love with, against all reason, against all practicality. 

"W'at the ruddy 'ell am I supposed to do with you, Lieutenant??!" 

It was a rhetorical question, of course, even if it was a veritable cri du coeur; it wasn't like there were all that many options. Goniff would continue as he had been, doing the job, trying to see the others stayed safe, trying to sneak in any extra support he could for the man with those green eyes that had snared his heart so early on. 

Well, wasn't like a fancy officer, one always on the up and up, would have any notion in Goniff's direction. Hell, as far as he could tell, Garrison didn't have any notions at all, in ANY direction! 

Goniff would have slapped himself upside the head if he'd thought it would help. He'd had plenty of people he'd cared for, tried to keep a careful eye out for, but none that he'd truly loved, not in that way, not til he'd landed here. He'd always kept his heart pretty much to himself, at least in the hearts-and-flowers arena, at least til Meghada. He'd thought about falling in love with a girl once, when he was sixteen, but finding out Amy Ann was about seventy or so years older than him, and dead most of those years along with it, well, that had kinda put him off the notion. 

And he'd never been strongly inclined toward men, had never met one who'd tempted him past a stray thought or two. 

And he was no innocent. He had his share of experience, far more than his share, maybe, though much not of his own choosing. And of what was left, some was more of a business exchange, need, safety, money, protection, food - all playing a part, but nothing of love in it. 

And now, when he had more than enough to deal with, figuring out Meghada and what lay between them, this young green-eyed Yank officer had just blown his whole life off course.

Like just now, him stepping in that way when Garrison had come up with that crazy idea about that group of traitors in London. Well, anyone could have seen it wasn't going to work, not the way the Lieutenant had it planned out. But still, pushing himself forward that way? Not even volunteering so much as just putting himself in the lead, making sure the Lieutenant stayed back on the sidelines? That had been stupid, suicidal, hero-stuff. That wasn't him. He was gonna get himself killed doing stupid things like that. 

{"W'at am I supposed to do with you, Craig Garrison? W'at the ruddy 'ell am I supposed to do with you?"}


	3. Major Kevin Richards - "Lieutenant, What On Earth Am I Supposed To Do With You?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major Kevin Richards in the aftermath of the fight scene in 'Life Lessons, Section 'Be A Good Influence'

For quite some time now, Major Richards had been pondering the very serious question of "who is most responsible for the ever-increasing amount of silver I am finding in my hair?" 

He didn't put that change down to the war; he was a trained military officer, after all. And it was not hereditary; oh, most of the men in his family had their hair turn silver, rather than grey, but usually only once they were in their mid-sixties or later.

No, mostly he'd figured the change in HIS hair, starting when he'd barely turned thirty, was the result of a contest between his younger sister, Julie, and the O'Donnell sisters - all bloody four of them, the sisters! He even imagined the five youngsters, now young women, keeping a scorecard to see which was currently in the lead. 

Recently, however, he'd found there was a new player in that game to seemingly turn him old before his time. Lieutenant Craig Garrison, team leader of the band of convicts now so whimsically nicknamed 'Garrison's Gorillas'. 

On some days, Kevin Richards thought Craig Garrison was one of the finest young officers he'd ever dealt with. On SOME days. On others, he was convinced the young man was totally mad. If he'd had to lay odds on whether Garrison would end up getting himself killed with some mad overly-ambitious scheme, getting himself courtmartialed for insubordination and related activities, or end up being made one of the youngest generals in the American forces, well, it rather depended on the day of the week. Sometimes the HOUR of the day! Like today, for instance.

"Lieutenant, what on earth am I supposed to do with you??! Yes, I cannot disagree that his behavior was unconscionable, but even if you quite properly made your opinions known in the boxing ring, that was not a polite lesson in manners! You may not have been out of control, true. In fact, that was the most in-control beating I've ever seen administered. Still . . ."

In the end, Richards pulled the bottle out from his bottom desk drawer, poured them each a shot, and admitted to himself there really wasn't anything thing TO do with Lieutenant Craig Garrison. He had defended his honor, that of his team and Meghada O'Donnell, and if that had left the offender a bloody heap on the boxing ring floor, how was Richards to chastize him when what he felt more than anything else was a sincere and rather amused respect? 

It was with a resigned sigh he smoothed his hair in the mirror, noticing at least one new strand of silver, one he was SURE hadn't been there that morning.


	4. Meghada O'Donnell - "What Am I Going To Do With You, Lieutenant?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meghada O'Donnell, while figuring how to deal with the turn of events that came to a head in 'Out of the Darkness, Comes the Dawn'.

Meghada listened to the uncomfortably vulnerable man trying to figure out who the hell he was and just where his place was in an increasingly complicated world. Standing there in her kitchen, listening as he poured out the words that had taken so long to rise to the surface, she remembered.

She'd seen the affection, nay, more than affection Goniff felt for this man very early on, and had wondered a time or two if the feelings were reciprocated. That had made her slow down, take her time in taking the measure of this Craig Garrison. And that wasn't really like her; she was usually quick to judge, men and women alike, though perhaps more with the men. Well, most annoyed her sufficiently right up front so that she never bothered to look farther. Kevin Richards might have fallen prey to her quick judgement, quick temper, except that she'd known him from when she was a child and that cut him more slack than she normally would have given.

Now Garrison she'd been wary of in the beginning. Not suspicious so much as not being too quick to give him her trust, especially with the welfare and wellbeing of the men entrusted to him, especially the Englishman who had captured her attention, then her heart. 

So she'd forced herself to withhold judgement, give both him and herself time to see what was what. Only after Goniff had been assaulted by the remnants of that merc team did she know for sure. Garrison's face had told her everything, even his bewilderment at the emotions he was feeling.

Back at the Cottage she considered. She'd told him she wasn't the jealous type, at least not with Family. The thing was, had she been completely truthful with him? COULD she be that accepting? It was nothing uncommon among her people, true, but for a Dragon to mate, to Bond was rare enough, and a Dragon was, by nature, possessive of that which it treasured. Could she be generous enough to share that which she treasured so? 

She flushed in shame. 

"Is that the question, truly? What is of true importance here? Or is it "am I so selfish, so greedy to take a precious treasure from one I claim to love, from one I can see loves in return?"

She didn't have the Gift of Seeing, the sure knowledge of what would be, and had never wished for it. Those who did carry that Gift found it a most uncomfortable thing to possess. But even the least talented had the potential for seeing the possibilities, for THAT was not a Gift but a learned skill, one all who desired it were taught.

Hurriedly she had cleared the kitchen table and scrubbed the wooden surface well with a handful of damp salt to purify the surface. Then she gathered the herbs, the spices, the dried blossoms, all she would require, into a very large bowl, and when all was ready, thought of the first of the possible scenarios, formed the first in her mind.

"If I discourage this relationship, find ways to keep them apart, try to hold Goniff for myself alone", knowing in her own heart she could do that easily enough if she chose to do so. It would be painful, yes, but it would not be difficult. It would take only a word here, a word there, a little gentle discouragement, not much at all, not at this stage. 

She scattered the double handfuls of mixed herbs over the bare surface of the table, using the slow patterned motion she'd been taught. Her eyes had remained closed til the last flecks had left her hands, and only then did she reopen them. The table was littered with white and grey, shades of green and brown, black, along with the bright pink of the rose peppercorns, the red of the tiny dried rose buds. As she whispered the words out loud, the scene shifted, colors and patterns formed, reformed. Yes, her line, the deep green, and Goniff's, the sage green, twining together in the center, Garrison's line, of butternut gold, drifted off to the side, never joining theirs, fading into nothingness a scant few inches after the beginning. All the other colors and textures were heaped around the edges of the table, not so much as forming a frame, but just pushed aside, flotsam and jetsam from the tide. It was not a picture, so much as a scant tinted pen and ink drawing; not offensive, but incomplete, as if the artist had abandoned the work after barely starting.

She scraped the herb mixture into the deep bowl she had gathered them in, and presented the next of the possible outcomes. Whether she had in some way influenced that by the outrage she felt at the idea, she didn't know. She only knew that her words "if I step aside, leave them to each other" brought about a sad tumble, her deep green wandering aimlessly to the side, drifting without purpose, fading into nothingness. Garrison's gold and Goniff's green marched side by side for awhile, though never touching, never twining together, til they faded away, first the gold, then the green, long before reaching the full scope the surface provided. She hastened to sweep all the colors together again, shuddering at what she had seen. {"Such a waste of three lives!"}

And the last, which required her full acceptance, her encouragement of what she knew had at least the potential for being between the three of them. Again she picked up the mixture, handfuls at a time, and scattered them; once again, upon opening her eyes, asked the question. And the piles shifted, moved as if seeking their appointed position, and finally stilled.

Tears of joy now formed in her eyes. At the bottom of what appeared to be a rich tapestry, her line, deep green, intertwined closely with Goniff's line of sage green, one of butternut gold some distance away. Moving upward, that line of sage thickened, looped out farther to gather in that line of gold, intertwining there before doubling back to join with hers again, repeating that process again and again. And soon, not immediately but soon, there were three vines weaving in and around each other, forming a multi-colored braid of great intricacy. And all along that braid, the rose peppercorns and red rose buds dotted the surface, bringing color and life and all that could be desired. Other lines wove around the picture, touching their braid at various points, interweaving with the others, and the picture was of such richness as to take her breath away.

"Oh, how beautiful," she breathed, knowing now the possibility that lay before them.

Now, standing behind him, her arms around his shoulders as he confessed his fears, his doubts, his desires, she remembered all of that. And if her first thought had been {"what am I going to do with you, Lieutenant?"}, her second had been a reaffirmation of her thoughts that night. No, she would not be selfish, but open handed and generous. For in doing so all of their lives could be enriched, could eventually form a glorious tapestry, rich with color and life and love.


	5. Craig Garrison, Reverie - "What Am I Supposed To Do With You"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lieutenant Craig Garrison, in a conversation with first himself, then with Professor Ignatius J. Milford, former mentor to a young Craig Garrison, (whom we first met in 'A Severe Vision Problem'), in the days immediately following 'After the Darkness, Comes the Dawn'.)

Lieutenant Craig Garrison was staring into the mirror, at a person he both knew and did not know.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" 

It was a question he'd been pondering for days now, and it had come to a crux here in his bedroom, staring into a mirror that seemed to be of little or no help. Ignoring the question hadn't done any good, obviously, and while he knew Lynn told him he could be wonderfully obtuse at times regarding himself, his feelings, his motives, even he could see he had some decisions to make. 

{"Even the decision not to MAKE a decision would be a decision."}. 

He refrained from slapping himself upside the head, though he thought he really should after hearing THAT mangled thought. {"Though maybe I SHOULD. Maybe it would knock things around in there, put things in place, let me understand better."} 

A mist formed behind him, a familiar figure standing there. 

"Professor?" Somehow he wasn't as disconcerted as perhaps he should have been at the appearance of Professor Ignatius J. Milford, his mentor in college. Well, yes, the good professor had been dead for some time, but this wasn't the first time he'd decided to ignore that reality and show up for a visit.

"Yes, Craig. And that is a very astute question, and one you truly DO need to ask yourself. Far more productive than slapping yourself, surely. For the answer to that question is one that will determine the rest of your life. Whether it is a happy one. A satisfying one. One worth the effort it will take to make it successful."

"But I must say I am disappointed in how you are going about making your decision. Surely you have enough experience with what I believe you call 'bad intel' to know to avoid using unreliable sources!"

"Did I really hear you asking your father and mother's opinion just a few moments ago? Why on earth would you ask THEM a question so essential to your future well-being? Don't forget, I knew them both, quite well. Do you still deceive yourself that they ever had your happiness first in their hearts? You know better, my boy."

"If you must ask anyone's opinion, ask those who would wish you to be truly happy, and there are more than a few of those, you know. But in truth, it is YOURSELF you should be asking, for only within your own heart will you find your answers."

"Ask yourself, "at the close of my life, whenever that might be, do I wish to look back at a life well worth living, or one in which I passed through only half-alive, or even in barren emptiness? You are at a crossroads, or will be soon. Do not make the wrong choice, my boy. You have no idea of the richness that has been laid before you; do not, I implore you, turn away from all that could be."

Professor Milford sighed, "but you were always a stubborn boy, Craig. Have it your own way, make your own choice, yes. But choose for yourself! Do not let fate make your choice, or some pious mouthings from those who think to decide the behavior of others. YOU CHOOSE! Then, take responsibility for that choice, and make of it the best it can be."

The elderly man in the worn suit, his smoking pipe in his hand, turned to go, then turned back. "Oh, and I do like those new sketches, all of them. Particularly the ones of the young woman and your pickpocket. Amazing what you can tell by a picture, when someone talented as you are puts it down on paper. Perhaps you should sit down, perhaps over a drink, look at your notebooks again. See what your sketches tell you. I believe, if you truly listen, this time you might just hear the answer to your question."

Then he was fading, then gone, and Craig Garrison was staring at the misty remains of what he knew had been the smartest man he'd ever known. 

Slowly he walked over to his dresser, pulled out the stacks of notebooks he'd hidden there, all the sketches he'd done. Pouring himself a drink, he moved to sit in the armchair, slowly looking, this time listening, hoping the Professor was right. As he fingered slowly through the stack, lingering here and there over a face, a pose, a certain expression, "talk to me, tell me, what am I supposed to do with you, Craig Garrison," he muttered.

And by the time he'd paged through the last notebook, taken the last drink from the glass, he knew, without a doubt.

"Thank you, Professor. For everything," he'd said, smiling, before he headed off to bed.


	6. Major Klaus Gruber - "Now, What Am I Supposed To Do With You, Hmmm?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major Klaus Gruber, in charge of a small military enclave not far from the city of Bern.

The words being spoken should have inspired fear, apprehension in the prisoner, Lieutenant Craig Garrison, here posing as Karl Norstrum, minor cog in the German machine, supposedly sent to pick up a packet of information to be conveyed to some mysterious destination. After all, the officer had discovered the impersonation very early on, maybe from the beginning. But while the words themselves could have indicated dire intent, somehow the tone didn't. It was more curious, perhaps thoughtful, but not threatening in any overt manner.

"You are an American, I perceive. An officer, I would expect. Now, what am I supposed to do with you, hmmm?" 

The smile on the tall aristocratic man with the saber scar across his cheek was oddly congenial. Garrison's confusion increased, even as did his wary distrust. Then came the offer of a brandy, then a cigar. All very civilized, rather as if they were enjoying a quiet hour together in the smoking room of a gentlemen's club they both patronized. 

None of this was what Garrison had expected when his con had failed. Well, he couldn't blame himself or his team, not this time. Somehow it seemed that HQ Intelligence had missed, or maybe overlooked, or, and his suspicious mind flickered over what should have been the unthinkable {"maybe just decided not to mention for some reason,"} that this Gruber had know Karl Norstrum, the man Garrison was impersonating, during his teen years, perhaps after as well. Knew him well enough that Gruber had known right from the beginning that Garrison was a phony.

"I would prefer to call you by your own name, if you would tell me what that is?" It was a polite, even friendly question, one couched in a voice that urged confidence, belief.

Garrison just smiled a tight little smile, "that's all right. Karl works just fine."

Gruber sighed, "you are not forbidden to give me your name, you know. Name, rank and serial number, that is the accepted format. Even if you WERE caught in the wrong uniform. It just seems WRONG to call you by Karl's name. Though you are not unlike him in many ways," and Garrison was shocked by the hand that reached out to carefully trace the line of his jaw. "Not like him in many others, of course. He was about your height, yes, also a blond, but Karl had hazel eyes, not green. And that scar is placed just a little too high."

{"Had, was. Karl HAD hazel eyes. Have I been impersonating a dead man?"} and once again he wondered how much HQ Intel had really known. Malcolm Brenner had been their Handler on this run, not Kevin Richards; Garrison and the team had worked under Brenner a couple of times, no problems before, but this, this just felt off. HAD felt off, actually, even before the floor fell out from under them.

(It would not be the last time he had that thought, would wonder about Brenner.) 

Finally, after Gruber determined Garrison truly did NOT intend to talk, he uttered those words again, this time with some little bit of regret in his face, his voice. "Ah, just what am I supposed to do with you?" 

He was interrupted by the advent of his Aide, who urgently whispered something in Gruber's ear. Gruber sighed, nodded, and turned back to Garrison. 

"Though I suppose that is no longer my decision to make, unfortunately. I truly wish it were; I am sure we could come to some meeting of the minds, you know; something mutually beneficial."

He turned to the two men in German officers' uniforms who now stood there, holding out the order that the prisoner be handed over to them, greeted them congenially, not refusing them, certainly, but offered an alternative to their immediate departure with the prisoner.

"Perhaps you would like to enjoy our hospitality for the evening. The prisoner could remain here, in custody, quite safe, I assure you, and you could retrieve him in the morning. We have an excellent cook, there is schnapps, and the local women who serve the food are quite attractive; and the beds in our guest quarters, while not sporting silk sheets and feather mattresses, are private and not in the least uncomfortable." 

The taller of the two officers, dark, sardonic, didn't look like he was interested in coming to some accommodation, but then after another brief look at Garrison, nodded briskly. 

"Yes, that would be pleasant; it has been a long trip, and tomorrow is the start of an even longer one. You will keep this one safe?"

"But of course," Gruber agreed smoothly. 

He had his Aide stay with Garrison while he personally showed the two men, one tall and dark, the other much shorter, blond, to guest quarters, then to the dining facility. Returning, he dismissed his Aide with a quick, "very well, I will not need you for the rest of the evening. Go. Do not return before time for morning roll call."

Tracing his riding crop down the side of Garrison's face, "ah, now just what am I supposed to do with you? How do we get to know each other better?"

Garrison swallowed, still bewildered by this man, the treatment he'd been given, feeling there was something here he needed to understand, more than the obvious. 

"Maybe a game of chess? I've always found that was a good way of getting a better read on a man," he suggested, startling a laugh from the officer.

"Yes, perhaps we will start there. Karl enjoyed chess, you know, and was quite good at it. Tell me, are you quite good at chess as well? I really do wish you would tell me your name, you know. It would make things much more congenial. I am Klaus, though I expect you already know that."

Somehow Garrison had never expected to find himself on one side of a finely-crafted chessboard, drink on the small table beside him, talking small talk with his captor. {"This is probably the most unique interrogation I've even been involved with,"} he admitted to himself. 

While part of him remained tense, wondering just when this was all going to turn into something quite different, though still unsure just HOW different, on some level he was enjoying the companionship. Gruber was an educated man, obviously, with a sense of gentle humor that seemed out of character for that uniform.

The chess game ended; Garrison had lost, but it had taken time, had not been a rout, certainly, and he had NOT given the game away. 

Gruber sighed, "ah, well. That was pleasant, to be sure. Please, finish your drink. I am sure the evening will taking a turn quite soon, and it really is excellent brandy; it would be a shame to waste it." 

Setting his own glass aside, motioning to Garrison to clear the chessboard, Gruber went to a side table, and using a key from his keyring opened a drawer. Garrison had tensed, wondering if there would be a pistol, maybe a knife in the officer's hand when he turned. But Gruber had pulled out a packet of papers, what appeared to be a leatherbound notebook, and a thin envelope of photographs. He brought those to sit them on the table in the middle of the chessboard.

Garrison narrowed his eyes, glancing at the stack of what he presumed was the cache of information he and the team had been sent to retrieve. He arched one brow at Gruber, "and?"

"It is very late. By now, most of the base is at their slumbers. There are few awake, just those on guard duty. You will have little difficulty making your way free of the compound, I am sure." Garrison watched that gentle, knowing smile on Gruber's face, tensed slightly as that riding crop again came up to caress Garrison's cheek. Tensed for other reasons as well, like the shadows at the open window.

"Perhaps I should call you Karl after all; you are like him in many ways. If you were Karl . . ." and there was genuine sadness on that aristocratic face, "if you were truly Karl . . . But you are not, are you? What AM I supposed to do with you?"

"More's the question of w'at 'E'S supposed to do with you, aint it?" came a voice from the window. The fact that Gruber didn't jump or start at the voice told Garrison the visitors came as no surprise to the German officer.

The German uniform on the small blond didn't match the voice; Garrison had pretty well despaired of Goniff ever mastering anything even passable, in French or in German. Icy blue eyes, pistol in hand, suggested he had a few ideas of his own about what might be done with the officer. Goniff hadn't liked the idea of leaving Garrison with the man but had followed Actor's lead earlier, catching that quick eye signal from their leader. Everything LOOKED alright, Garrison didn't seem injured or in pain, but still . . .

"Indeed, a most valid point. What ARE we supposed to do with him?" Actor asked.

Garrison looked at Gruber, sitting there, still with that sad smile on his face. "What happened to the real Karl Norstrum?"

"Karl was Austrian, felt no sympathy for the regime in Berlin or where it was taking the world. He wanted out, had made arrangments to get to Switzerland, offered vital documents to the Allies in exchange for help in getting there, safe passage, if you will. He trusted the wrong man, one of your people in London from all I have been able to ascertain. The man took the papers, the money Karl was carrying, and left Karl to the Gestapo's hospitality. It, it did not end well, of course; interviews with the Gestapo rarely do. Karl took his own life before he could be forced to implicate any one else. Before he could be forced to implicate me."

Gruber looked up at Garrison, eyes now showing anger and pain, well-mixed. "I should have gone with him to the meeting with the American; perhaps I would have recognized the trap for what it was. But I stayed behind, to try and muddy his trail, give him more time." 

He shook his head, hard, as if to shake himself free of memories, regrets. He nodded at the table.

"There, I believe that is what you came after; perhaps it will shorten this madness somewhat. Take it, go."

Garrison reached out, gathered the papers, looked them over and then handed them off to Actor who tucked them away.

"And you?" he asked, somewhat reluctantly.

Gruber shrugged, "you have my word I will not call the alarm. Or you may render me unconscious; you may kill me. It is of little importance; there is little of importance anymore."

Garrison studied him, and almost against his will asked, "would it be of importance to avenge Karl, if you had the opportunity?" He ignored the sotto voce exclamation from Goniff, the quick intake of breath from Actor.

Gruber's eyes glowed with fierce emotion, the first truly strong emotion Garrison had seen, or at least the first dark emotion, for there had been episodes of something softer earlier. "I would like that better than anything. What will it cost me?" He gave a choked laugh, "not that it matters. Whatever it costs, yes, to get revenge for Karl, anything!"

"Then get your hat and coat; we're out of here," Garrison ordered the startled officer.

Goniff just rolled his eyes, complaining half to himself, "figures! Ruddy 'ell, Warden, sometimes I don't know w'at we're gonna do with you! Aint we got enough on our plate?" Though he'd heard enough to understand, both the offer and the acceptance. Perhaps he would have taken the chance himself, if he had been in either one of their shoes. Maybe.

Actor shook his head at Garrison, "indeed, he had the right of it! Just what ARE we going to do with you??! One of these days these high-minded ideas of yours are going to prove your death!" But he sighed, and moved to the door, opening it carefully, before motioning them all through. Through, back to the car where Chief and Casino were waiting, out and gone.

And on the plane headed back, Garrison told Gruber, "when we get back, we'll see about tracking down who was behind Karl Norstrum's betrayal. I don't know if it's possible, but we can try." 

Anyone capable of that kind of a set-up, it was probably not a one time thing; he and the team had experienced their own share of such inventiveness. He still had his suspicions about this mission, the misleading intel.

Gruber had nodded in acceptance, eyes never leaving Garrison's face "and perhaps we will have another game of chess. And perhaps, someday, you will tell me your name, yes?"

Garrison hesitated, then, to an exaggerated eyeroll from Goniff and Casino, he said, "my name's Craig Garrison."

Gruber nodded, "Craig - not Karl. Craig - not so very different after all."

And a hand reached out, one long finger tapped him firmly on the shoulder and when he turned, icy blue eyes looked into Gruber's. There was a portion of sympathetic understanding there, and the small blond's words showed that. 

"Look, I'm sorry for your loss and all." 

Instinctively knowing there was more to follow, Gruber took note of the warning look even colder than those blue eyes, while a quietly cautioning voice reminded him, 'but, 'e aint your Karl, mate. Best you don't go forgetting that, ei?" 

And if the next words were unspoken, they still hung in the air like an iron sword, ^"and 'e aint your Craig. Best you don't go forgetting THAT, neither!^"

Gruber glanced at Garrison, wondering how the man took that rather presumptuous warning from the small Cockney. Seeing the hint of gratified appreciation in that flicker of a smile, he sighed regretfully, turned back to Goniff and nodded in understanding.

"No, I will not forget. I believe that would be a very big mistake, no? I have made more than enough mistakes; I would like to avoid any others," getting a firm nod of agreement from Goniff, and in looking around, realizing that agreement was universal, with Garrison as well as the others.

{"Damn it, Goniff! What am I supposed to do with you?? You're getting as 'subtle' as Meghada!"} Garrison thought, suppressing a chuckle when he looked into Goniff's eyes, reading a very similar thought in his pickpocket's mind, {"Ruddy 'ell, what am I supposed to DO with you, Craig??!"}

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Some of these are out-takes from other stories, vignettes that perhaps express things from another viewpoint, or give a little more indepth glance of the thoughts and emotions of the participants. Story titles are cited if possible. These take place at various points on the timeline of my stories.


End file.
